


in this shirt

by dumbasshoe



Series: rose-tint [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Modern AU, contents of the nsfw varieties, gon the sweaty virgin, killua is still rich lmao he got family issues, kite the janitor loner moves in, mito going back to college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbasshoe/pseuds/dumbasshoe
Summary: Gon loves his boyfriend. There's a saying about high-school romances and summer that he'd like to remember, but he can't think of the word. The smell of cleaning chemicals makes it even harder.





	1. Cherries are sexy?

**Author's Note:**

> ive been soooo excited to post this yall dont even KNOW. such a passion project for me lol.
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy this chapter!!

  


 

 

 

 

 

“ _Gon!_ You'll be late for school if you sleep in any longer!!”

In the bedroom farthest from the entryway, the boy sleep-sighs something that sounds like ‘mno’ against his pillow.

Sun spills lazily through the gaps in his shades, tickles his bare skin with the inkling promise of a wickedly hot day. Only half-awake, he rolls onto his back. Creaks open an eye and yawns, watching the dust dance in the sun’s spotlights.

He tastes his dry mouth after deep sleep, scrunches his face and tries to remember what his aunt had yelled. He rolls his head to check the clock on his dresser: 07:26.

Ah. Yes. 07:26. What day is it.

Eyes blow wide, he gasps sharply--- “Crap!” Gon is out of bed in an instant, throwing on the first school shirt in sight--- the one he wore yesterday, actually, which smells like ‘sour’ and deodorant. But he has about fourteen minutes to book it to school, so who cares?

He shouldn't have stayed up so late on his phone. He can’t believe he forgot to set his alarm!

“Darn it, not today,” he mutters, short of breath, shimmying into his stubborn pants. “Come on,” he's grumbling, pulling up the zipper and tucking in his shirt before bursting from his bedroom at full speed, then returning because he forgot his schoolbag, then again running out and through the hallway of his small home as quickly as he can without stumbling.

“I have your lunch here, Gon!”

He pivots, shoes squeaking on the tile as he rushes into the kitchen. “Thank you,” Gon sighs with relief; his cheap bento lunch sits on the table wrapped in aged cloth. He gratefully stuffs it into his bag, briefly eyes his aunt. She's in pajamas still, he sees. Red-eyed and clearly exhausted, with her nose in a book or four and her dinosaur laptop open.

“You're still up this late?” Gon asks her.

“You're welcome hun,” she answers belatedly, glancing up to meet his incoming cheek-smooch. “Yeah, I have assignments due tonight. I’ll crash soon. It’s Friday; school’s until 8 and then I work, so I'll see you tomorrow. Call me when you get home.”

“Okay,” Gon replies, closing his bag. “Love you!” He tells her, throwing the front door open.

“Love you too, have a good day at school!”

“You too!” Gon smiles quickly, grabbing the knob to close the door---

“And have a great _date,_ sweetie!” Mito’s grin is evident from the way she calls it out. When Gon pauses to blush in the doorway, she laughs out of sight.

Despite himself, he calls back, “I _will_!” and shuts the door.

Gon smiles to himself. He pulls his dated flip phone from his pocket; once-silver and scratched and only a hand-me-down, but it serves its purpose. He checks the time---he has seven minutes.

 _He’s late._ Running the length of the apartment balcony, he blurs past the 4 other doors, counting _‘24 23 22 21’_ and bounds down the stairs to l ground level of this cheap apartment complex.

He's late, and he’s smelly.

He’s tired but adrenaline-high, tired, and apparently tired, too tired because when he turns the corner from the stairway, there's a moving van parked in one of the long-vacant parking spots that he almost crashes into face-first. He jumps back last minute, breathing a ‘whoa’, eyeing the vehicle strangely. It's in the wrong spot, sure, but more importantly; who moved in?

Gon shrugs it off and keeps running. He’ll find out when he doesn't have less than seven minutes to run almost two miles to school.

Gon knows he can absolutely do it. He did the mile in track at (the current school record of) 4 minutes! Gon hypes himself up as he picks up speed, turning a corner, not stopping until he must but ignoring a walk-sign or two when he can because he's determined to get there on time.

He’s late, sweaty and absolutely unprepared for his date this afternoon. But today is still going to be an awesome day. Maybe the showers will be free during lunch.

Gon reaches the school’s field. His breathing is steady if not loud, sweat beading on his forehead and above his chin as he sprints down the sidewalk. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears is in both rights intoxicating and sickening.

It’s already 30° and not even 8am, he envies the grass being showered by automatic sprinklers! If he hadn’t been so forewarned not to, both by his counselor and the multitude of posted signs with big red lettering, he’d be inclined to climb the fence and cross the field, catch the spray as he ran.

He thinks sometimes it’s as if the counselor is detailing his structures to fit Gon’s inclinations. Ridiculous.

At last Gon arrives on campus, just as the late bell rings. Only slightly disappointed he couldn't beat his record by two minutes, he goes through the tardy process, gives his name, stands bent over at the water fountain to hydrate for a solid minute or three, in acceptance of his lateness.

On his way to first period he checks his phone before muting it; sees 3 new messages from Killua.

07:35: _dude youre gonna be late!_

07:38: _sucks : < your attendance has been perfect since first year righ? neevr even seen yous ick _

07:40: _wanted to say hi before classes but i can wait til lunch :3 see ya later gon_

He smiles largely. Killua isn't one to be in such anticipation. He's thinking about the date too, Gon muses. This alone renews his energy.

First and second period pass quickly---maths and science, both of which Gon is quite terrible at. His attention span for these passionless, complex subjects is already ‘crippled’---as his aunt once delicately described in his home studies---so his barely passing grade for this semester (thanks to friends) is Gon’s proof that he really is just bad at learning. Killua usually argues this.

On his way to third period he has to pee, and he regrets not visiting a bathroom earlier...

Perhaps he should have checked a mirror before leaving the house, because he's realizing hours into school that his hair is _absolutely ridiculous_ ; 'bedhead’ falls short--- he's got spikes sticking in all directions and pieces hanging in his face. It's moments like these he's amazed Mito was able to get him into this school.

After an appropriate cringe, he brushes fingers through his hair in an effort to make himself presentable, wipes his eyes of sleep-mucus and gargles sink water a few times to try and clear out the gross, metallic taste of sleep.

Poor Killua probably showed up bright-eyed and in his best, and Gon is gonna show up to their diner-date looking and smelling his I-rolled-out-of-bed worst.

 _‘Ah well,’_ Gon thinks, _‘Killua never cares that I'm sweaty usually.’_ Maybe Killua would interpret his unpreparedness as nerves.

He throws open the boys’ bathroom door open to run to his next class---

“Wait kid---!" and knocks over a mop bucket, spilling out the grey, bubbly water.

“Ah, I'm sorry!” Gon nearly yells.

There’s a solid four seconds of silence where Gon stares blankly at his mess, frowning in shame. He hears the janitor's  _tsk_ , and crouch in his periphery.

The water really shows its nasty opacity on the empty, gleaming hallway floors. Repentant, he makes to apologize to the janitor again, who’s currently kneeling to set right the bucket and pick up the other supplies Gon so gracefully threw all over the floor.

He drops to help the man, unaware at first that he's kneeling in murky puddle. “Ah, ew--- sorry, mister! I didn't see you!”

The janitor half-turns to acknowledge Gon. “It's fine,” he assures with a low voice. “Go ahead to class,” he takes the rags Gon holds out to him.

Gon did hear him. But he stops to stare at the bit of silver peeking from his hat. Eyes tracing along his long braid. Gon wants to meet his eyes. The man doesn't turn as he cleans, though he does sigh pointedly, dropping his head, so Gon mutters a dumb ‘bye’, feeling stupid for giving the man more work. As he heads to class, almost late again, he wonders how he's never seen him before.

 

* * *

 

When the lunch bell rings, Gon makes vicious effort to rush in and out of the gym showers.

He grimaces when he’s forced into borrowing a used, damp towel left behind by a fellow student to dry off, because Gon forgot to bring the one in his locker. Quickly, he dries, combs his hair in his locker’s mirror, redresses, then awkwardly leaves the towel he borrowed on the bench where he found it.

And 15 minutes into break, he head to the school’s roof to meet Killua at their spot.

Various other pairs or groups, all older than the two of them, are also at their normal spots, their food already eaten and set aside.

Gon opens the door, smiling sheepishly in preparation. Across the clear, Killua glances up boredly from his phone.

“Hey!” He calls, standing. “Where have you been, dummy!”

Other kids, though used to his behaviour, eye the two of them as Killua shouts to Gon. He winces at his friend's unabashed volume.

“Sorry,” he says, approaching, “I took a shower first.” He sits down next to where Killua stands, starts unknotting the old cloth that holds his lunch. “I was sweaty,” he admits.

Killua scoffs a laugh, muttering something like ‘nothing new’ and sitting back down. He's a bit farther. A bit stiffer today.

“It's fine. I just, wanted to see you.”

Gon side-eyes him. “Oh yeah?” He grins when Killua’s ears turn red. “I wanted to see you too.”

He smiles and looks away when he hears that.

"No homo," Gon adds and Killua laughs out loud, bumping his shoulder.

Gon’s head falls back to lean against the fence, eyes raising skyward. Sighs, “It's been a weird day. I hope nothing weirder happens on our date.”

"Weird, huh? I kinda feel it.”

“Why, what's up?” Gon asks, taking a bite of his food. Rice and veggies. It's leftovers again, he already finished the chicken that accompanied, but it's still good. Not like he'd complain to Mito.

Killua takes his phone from his pocket to play idly at the lock screen. “It's---it's my family…”

Gon takes note of his mood shift.

“They want me to visit in a couple weeks.”

Mouth full, Gon prods, “So soon? You were just there for your birthday right?” Killua nods. “How long will you be there this time?”

“A week.”

Gon swallows his food. “And what do you want to do?”

Killua continues fidgeting, with his cuticles now. His voice is quieter. “Obviously I don't like going back home. The whole reason I asked for my own apartment was so I could get away from them.”

“Yeah…”

“But like,” Killua pauses to sigh deeply, “at the same time when I go too long without seeing them, they start coming here. Or cutting off my allowance, or talking about how maybe I'm ‘not old enough for the responsibility of living alone’. It's stupid.

“Can't wait for the next two years to fly by so I can legally run away.”

Gon bows his head as he contemplates his friend's words. “Why don't you just enunciate?”

“You mean _emancipate?_ ”

Gon nods, “Yeah, what I said.”

Shaking off a dry smile, Killua thinks before he speaks. “I’ve, thought about it. I’d have ‘freedom’, but…”

Killua doesn't realize he's zoned out until Gon prods, “But…”

“It's hard to explain.”

His mouth presses into a thin line. “I'm sorry, Killua.”

He looks at Gon, “For what?”

“Mm. I don’t fully get it, because it’s always only ever been my aunt and me, and we get along pretty well, but…” Gon frowns, looks at Killua, “You have a tough family situation. I'm just sorry. It’s not fair.”

Killua gives a small half-smile. “Don’t be sorry.” Eyes dart to the food untouched in Gon’s lap. “Anyway it’s not all bad. I love my siblings.”

“Oh, at least you'll get to see them if you visit!” Gon says loudly, brows high like they always are when he’s excited about something.

“Yeah,” Killua agrees. He zones out once more.

Gon doesn't touch the topic again, receding from his eager reaction, because Killua’s gone quiet.

He's seen enough moments like these---where his eyes will darken, his hands will quit their vulnerable fidgeting and drop dead and numb at his sides--- to know the fate of these simple family complaints, seemingly conversation starters for a moody, rich teenager-----

“Eat your food, Gon.”

He raises a surprised brow at Killua.

“You won't be a very good date if you're more into your food than me.”

At that Gon laughs with his eyes and nudges his shoulder playfully, flirtatiously, reveling in his best friend's returned smile. Despite little concerns, Gon takes another bite of his food, feeling like their gap has shortened.

He's glad they got here. Gon has been in a state of hyper-happiness for weeks.

Since Killua’s bold, emotional confession on this very rooftop, where Gon had only smiled, equally emboldened by his friend's carmine passion, and told him he felt the same. And then they shared their first kiss. Hungry, awkward and fumbling on his part, but the intensity could compare to nothing he’d ever felt in his life.

Hot ears and wet tongues and hungry, clueless hands, the feeling of fire running along his spine. The brunt of summer was here, but he’d still never feel more heat-stricken than he had that afternoon. Killua’s sweet taste is still in his mouth.

Thinking back to that moment, Gon absently takes hold of Killua’s hand. Eats with his left, like holding his hand is and should be the most natural thing. And immediately, Killua flushes. The temperature of his skin rises, which makes Gon wonder how _this_ Killua and the one that yanked him by his shirt collar into a steamy kiss were the same person.

Staring through the chain-link of the fence, surveying the city alit by a sadistic sun, the boy smiles as he chews. Grips his lover’s hand ever tighter.

Gon is content.

 

* * *

 

 

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah, lemme---" Gon is on his tiptoes, searching for his friend through the crowd of students leaving school. He spots him--- “ZUSHI!!!”

Killua is the one wincing now. Across campus, a boy turns at his name being screamed and starts jogging over.

The white-haired teen tries to hold it back, he really does, but his second-hand embarrassment has him making a scrunchy face as he chooses to look at the ground instead of the younger boy running over with much too much excitement on his face.

He's short and baby-faced and not their age, but he's a hard worker, and he's kind; he's here because he earned his way into this school. And for that, Gon respects him. According to his guardian and the assistant principal, Wing, he's a prodigy. He's also moderately obsessed with Gon and Killua after having seen them go nuts breaking records at the arcade. To Killua’s embarrassment. He tags along on their hangouts sometimes. Gon _even_ lets him help him with his homework!

“Hey guys! What's up? Are you gonna hang out right now?” Zushi asks, seriously interested.

Killua rubs his neck and half-smiles, “Y--yeah, but---"

“Yeah, Killua and I are going on a date!”

Killua smacks the back of Gon’s head with instinctive speed, and when he’s thrown forward by impact he misses how red Killua’s face is.

“Ahh, Killua!” he seethes.

Zushi watches them, wide-eyed.

“Don't just go around telling people!”

Gon pouts. “You’re acting silly about it! It’s only Zushi!”

Killua scowls despite reason.

“Well anyway,” Gon returns his attention to the younger teen, “I’m free Monday if you can hang out!”

“Ah, okay! Definitely! Then, see you guys later!”

“Bye,” the boys call, waving the younger goodbye as he lugs his much-too-heavy schoolbag to his extra classes.

Killua turns to Gon. “He’s gonna help you with English?”

“Hehe, yeah.”

They set off after that, boarding the crowded after-school bus that heads downtown.

Killua doesn't like holding hands in public for some reason. Moreso when classmates are near. He tends to look around too much, and when he sits next to Gon, he's somehow nowhere near him.

So Gon, suave as he is, moves his schoolbag between them on the seats. It’s a solid minute he’s been snaking his hand over to Killua's, propped unassumingly in his lap. Taking advantage of the bus jumping from a bump in the road, Gon takes firm hold of it, resting on Killua’s clothed thigh.

He doesn't react beyond ‘nonchalantly’ glancing around. Roving his hand towards the space between them, further behind the bag. Like he’s crawling them further into privacy, clasping his fingers into Gon’s so they're templed.

And it's so warm now. Gon swallows.

If Killua weren't facing the other way, Gon could see his pretty face. The way his silver brows would curve faux-angry and his jaw would clench; the endearing, unfailing pink dusting his nose, his cheeks, spreading down his neck and ending somewhere Gon's never seen. Too much does he like the sensation of Killua's pulse picking up flush against his skin.

Carelessly, he rubs soft, slow patterns into Killua's hand, thumbing into his palm in a way that feels intimate. Not intimate the way kissing is intimate, but in the way sitting on someone’s unmade bed is. Gon doesn't realize.

But his attentive eyes don't miss Killua poorly suppressing a full-body shudder, beside him on the metal seat.

 

* * *

 

 

27 tense minutes later, they arrive downtown. Killua comments on how he could easily have called a car to drive them here, but Gon shakes his head, replying he’s glad they took the bus, because it’s part of the experience. The boys walk in stride to their compromised date-location; a diner. Not just any diner though---an _‘American’_ diner.

Since they’d known each other, every time they've passed the establishment, Gon has always wanted to eat there and Killua has always made fun of the aesthetic.

And the inside, when they arrive, sweating like teenagers and giggly from light flirting is like a scene straight out of a movie: cherry booths and retro trim and a big neon jukebox. Red. Tile floor patterns and vintage posters and English music playing. The whole restaurant smells like burgers, coffee, and artificial sweetener.

It's cheesy, Killua is embarrassed to be in here, but Gon has an expression that's so genuinely, childishly eager. All those months he’d offhandedly interrupted their conversations to say ‘oh, I still wanna eat there someday’---they led to this.

So Killua decides he rather fancies a chocolate sundae on his date. _‘In the end this was still safer than his first suggestion,’_ Killua thinks to himself.

They take a booth.

“Hey Gon, lookie,” Killua whispers, pointing to a young couple at the other end of the restaurant. Gon looks, already smirking mirthfully.

Imitating the couple as they speak, Killua clears his throat, prepared to narrate nonsense. In the deep, ridiculous voice he assigns the young man, he drawls;

“Ahh, my princess, is this cherry to your liking?” The woman is clearly shooting glances of lovey-dovey affection at her boyfriend. She eats the cherry he offers her right out of his fingers, “ _Oh,_ my dearest, uh-- boyfriend-kun, you know me so well~”

Gon is stifling giggles behind a hand, whispering “It totally looks like that's what they're saying!” and even Killua's breaking from his professional voice acting with laughs and smiles, made worse when they laugh at each other laughing.

Killua sniffs. “Man, they are being way too intimate in too public a place,” he says under his breath.

Gon perks. “Intimate? How?”

Killua makes an _obvious_ face, counting off the stone cold facts; “They're making eye-contact... Touchy-feely... _Feeding each other cherries_.”

Gon blinks. “Uh huh.”

Killua blinks back, raising a brow. “That's like. A sexy thing to do.”

“Cherries are sexy?” Gon questions, voice raising too high at the end.

“ _Of course they are,_ ” Killua states, with all the confidence of a pruney college professor.

“But they’re frui---How do _you_ know?”

Killua's eyes dart to the emptiest part of the wall as he quickly explains “Everyone knows. It's a thing, Gon.”

Gon is unconvinced.

“Oh wait look they’re still going,” Killua shushes, turning their attention back to the couple.

Once again the girl is hand-fed a cherry, and Killua’s voice cracks as he tries to hold that especially feminine quality when she opens her mouth to speak:

“Mmmm! It tastes like red!”

Gon sputters, jumping in to take over the boyfriend's voice next.

“Oh sweetheart, do you love when I put my fingers all over your food?” As though on cue, the boyfriend slides a fingertip off her ice cream, and offers it to her.

Killua is red and absolutely dying from holding in laughter---he waits for her to lick it off and open her mouth to speak, so that he can moan theatrically, in high-pitch: “Oh _yes,_ I _love_ when you stick your meaty hands in my ice cream and feed me like a toddler~!”

The couple break into flirtatious laughter then, like they're playing along.

And _that_ did it. The boys _break_ , cracking up.

Loudly. Senselessly; they're loud enough to receive concerned looks from the other few patrons, even the couple themselves.

Gon recovers first, licks his lips in a wide smile, soft snorts still leaving his mouth through his teeth. He watches Killua start to slide under the booth, hands gripping his stomach in honest laughter.

They're bluntly interrupted by the waitress. She greets them with an apathetic “Welcome to Ruby’s diner, what can I get for you?” in perfect Japanese. She'd be pretty if not for the perpetual scowl she kept.

Killua and Gon die down from their joy. “Uh, yeah,” Killua sniffs, sitting up a bit, wiping his eyes and clearing his throat. “I'll have a chocolate sundae deluxe.”

“Got it. And you---"

“With extra chocolate syrup and a bowl of cherries on the side.”

 _‘Cherries,’_ the two of them think at the same time as they meet eyes, straight faced.

As the waitress huffs and adds his train of requests to his little order, Gon plays with his earlobe, eyes wandering over the very mix-&-match decor. _He's_ more than aware of Killua's background, but this waitress isn't. She'll assume he's only a pompous teen from the way he orders his food in this unassuming restaurant, confidently, without eye-contact. He even has his foot propped up on the leather. Gon could never do that.

“Right. You, boy?”

Gon looks up at her, and orders a cheeseburger and fries, partly because he wants to try it, partly because it's one of the few things he knows how to ask for in English.

“Kay. ‘ll be back...” she mumbles, already heading to the kitchen.

Their atmosphere’s become a little less fun, but no less saccharine.

“Ne, Killua,” Gon says, reaching out to grab Killua's hand, “What if we go on a date every Friday?”

Killua allows Gon to play with his fingers, briefly looking around. “Uhm. Sure.” He turns back to Gon, smile glued to his face.

“Okay!” Gon’s hand dances up his friend's wrist. “Then, next time how about you come to---”

“Gon!” Killua hisses, flushing pink. “I won't have a sleepover in your room!” His hand recedes a bit too.

Gon doesn't get why. “But I've never had one! You always talk about how you want us to play games and hang out on the weekends! Why do you not want to come over so bad?” Killua looks away. It causes Gon’s mind to wander.

“Is it… because I'm poor?” He asks honestly. “If you'd rather be at your place, then---"

“No, no. No it's not that.” Killua is adamant, his steely eyes say as much. “Trust me, it's… not that. Anyway my place is uh, dirty.”

Gon sighs, lets his eyebrow and the topic fall for now. “Well whatever. You pick next date then!”

Killua nods. “Yeah… I’ll plan a _really_ good date.”

“Why do you say it like that!”

He smirks. “Oh Gon,” His phone rings from his pocket and he pulls it out, “just you _wait_ \---"

Gon’s brows furrow. He's staring at the screen.

Killua's expression makes him nervous.

“Who is it? Is something wrong?”

His mouth opens and closes. “I'll be right back,” he mutters.

“Ah---"

Gon doesn't get to reply because Killua is already heading to the bathroom, gripping his phone strangely, like it's either scalding or something invaluable. Gon wonders who it was. Maybe his family. Maybe his butler, actually, since Killua once told him their butler is one of the only two people from home who ever personally call him.

 _“All family calls are pre-arranged,”_ Killua had explained with clinical tone.

 _“Since we're scattered across Japan, my parents and brothers are always occupied with some sort of something. So the seven of us all tie in for a very mandatory video call and ‘chat’ like it's a round-table discussion, or like a board meeting. Except instead of business we're giving presentations and graph estimates of our well-being, needs and other miscellaneous information.”_ He'd been playing chess on his phone as he spoke.

 _“That's so cold,”_ Gon replied. _“Is that what it was like living with them?”_

Killua nibbled his lip a bit. The way he does when he's holding secrets. All he said in reply though, was, _“Worse.”_

Gon Is starting to become anxious. He hopes everything is okay with Killua. He really wants to continue their date. When the waitress brings their food and leaves, he remains waiting, knuckles bunched in the pants of his school uniform as he stares blankly at his food. And even a few minutes later when his cheeseburger has stopped steaming and Killua's sundae is beginning to melt, chocolate pooling in the bowl, Gon waits.

The bathroom door makes a loud ‘clang’ sound when Killua pushes it open too hard. Gon sits up as he comes speedwalking to sit back down in the booth.

“...Is everything alright?”

Killua only stares at the table. He glances up at Gon for a moment---“I don't know.”

His expression is one of concern. “Is it something with your family?”

Killua nods.

“Something you can't tell me?”

He doesn't respond.

Instead of answering, Killua picks up the spoon sitting next to his bowl and plunges it into the melty sundae, taking an oversized mouthful.

“Yeah. But it's whatever. Mm,” he swallows, takes another spoonful of ice cream. “How's your cheeseburger?” Killua asks thickly. His features are too excited for the faraway look in his eyes. He sticks his fingers into the extra cherries he ordered, so there's one on each finger, and pops them into his mouth with false gluttony.

Gon is still concerned. His brows are set in a look of worry or disappointment. He can't tell, but he feels the weight of them on his face.

“Killua… you can tell me.”

The white-haired boy swallows. Looks at the retro flooring, letting this terrible façade fall away. He wears his feelings plain on his face.

“Gon,” Killua starts softly, wiping his mouth some, “don't even worry about it.” He doesn't get all the ice cream; Gon’s eyes dart to the bit of chocolate left at the corner of his pink mouth.

“It's my family, my problems. Not everything can be fixed because you will it so.”

He didn’t even say it to hurt.

“Of course I'm going to worry about it!” Gon asserts, nearly shouting. Killua bristles, rising to shush him down, reminding them they're in public. It's only Gon's voice that softens: “You're my friend!”

Killua goes silent. His hand descends to the table, collapses, like it can't hold the weight of the spoon. It, along with the way his bottom lip curves says volumes about his feelings.

Quietly. “Let's just finish our food, okay? I'll tell you everything later. I promise.”

But Gon knows he won't. He said that in the same way he says things he knows will placate Gon. ‘Later’ doesn't come.

Yet he's wary to call him out. Killua has his reasons, and much as he would like to know Killua, as well as he possibly can, he respects his situation. All of his unsaid words obviously have to do with something Killua _can't_ share with him. Yes. That has to be it.

So Gon replies, a little defeated, “Fine.”

He picks up his half-warm burger and eats like a starving teenager, unaware of the way he pouts while he chews.

Killua smiles sadly at the sight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I'll call you later,” Gon says, nuzzling Killua's neck as he holds him in the tightest hug he’s ever received. The boy is an anaconda and he doesn't realize it.

“Ah, you could just text, too…”

Killua is red-faced, but it might be because he hasn't been able to inhale for a while. “Let up or I'm gonna die at this greasy bus stop,” he grunts, tapping Gon’s shoulder repeatedly.

“Ah, sorry Killua!”

He gasps for air when he steps back. “It's okay.”

The bus comes just as 6:30 rolls around.

“See you,” Killua says as Gon boards the bus. They smile at each other, the way friends do.

Gon hums a nod in soft affirmation. “See you, Killua.”

Their pupils dilate as they eye each other, the way boys in love do. Gon feels a twinge of insecurity, though, when Killua rubs his lips together after a long moment, turns to skate home.

“Killua?”

“Huh?” He turns.

Gon grins. Emphatic, sincere, much too pure---

And too loud he calls, “I love you!” hands flat against the glass as the bus doors close.

Just in time, because Killua is denied a chance to respond. But Gon doesn't miss his eyes changing, the barely-repressed instinctive response to call him an ‘Idiot!’ in the form of wavering mouth; he blushes something lovely, stifling a half-laugh of embarrassment as the bus’ brakes are released. He leaves the stop.

Leaves Killua, standing with a hand over his face.

Gon sits, sighs, smile lingering. He slouches against the warm glass. Orange sunlight hits the windows, turns his coffee eyes a striking gold.

The world is rose-tinted. His juvenile mind wanders.

Gon watches the streets go by, used to the severe drop in appearance as they blur past; weeds and trash and cracks in the sidewalk---such small details---and Gon could still go on to notice the graffiti and the broken windows, the boarded up doors and filthy gutters, the missing or broken streetlights, not even batting an eye because this is his home. He thinks he's rather comfortable, despite others commending him on ‘turning out so well for being raised in this sort of area.’ They commend his aunt, too. He doesn't really get it.

He gets off at his stop nine minutes later, still elated, sated, and absolutely ready for the weekend. Maybe he can convince Killua to leave his apartment and do something with him. Gon really doesn't get why he doesn't go out more, as sociable as he is.

He turns his street corner and Gon picks up speed for the home-stretch, this isn't a good pocket to be around after dark anyway. As if to punctuate his thought he hears men laughing and glass shattering a few houses back.

Jogging up the stairs of the complex, Gon notices the van he'd seen on his way out that morning is gone.

Briefly curious, he slows to peek over the bannister, around the first floor apartments, in seek of the new neighbor. But nothing stands out. Doors shut, lights off. He shrugs and continues. Maybe they're on his floor---but it's all the same. He ponders what sort of people they might be. Hopes they won't be violent and loud like the last family that moved in.

He unlocks his creaky apartment door and shoves in past the broken piece of wood that impedes it every time, and locks and closes it behind him. Toes off his shoes and shoves them into a stuffed cubby, heads to his room.

He keeps thinking about Killua.

Gon pads softly through the empty apartment, close to dark now that the sun is setting. Their home is cluttered with possessions but nowhere near filthy, because his aunt is obsessively clean. Wicked with her organization. The teen is used to it, though he still can't keep his own room clean for any longer than a week without her barging in to tell him it's filthy. He can't stay clean for the life of him.

The smell of cleaning chemicals and plug-in scents keeps the house alive, a nostalgic scent that makes Gon’s throat thick sometimes.

Nothing recreates a vision of the past with more potency than a smell once associated; cheap candle wicks, the kind labeled ‘fresh!’ that smell like some sort of fruit he can’t pinpoint---they remind him of his father. Or rather, when Gon was a boy, living in the home of his father. He doesn't tell Mito they buy the same air fresheners, because Gon is masochistic, when he relives memories for the price of sadness swirling in his gut.

But it's short-lived. His dearest friend has been a lovely distraction in the recent months. Fleeting nostalgia can't bring him down from this high.

Dropping his bag on his bed, he goes to the kitchen, checks the time on the oven as he pulls the fridge open: 10:02. Meaning that the correct time is a few after seven. Silly oven.

The teen downs a water bottle while he stands in the cool light of the fridge, feels the sweat on the back of his neck bead down between his shoulder blades.

What little light there is comes from the windows; slats of orange on one end of the house, muted blue squares on the other, as the moon takes the sun’s shift.

Gon eyes his home, his warm, cramped home, unorthodox yet cozy with their trinkets. Mito’s empty, made bed and belongings set into the corner of the living room, separated by a divider. Her scrubs for her next shift hanging beside. There’s mismatched frames on the walls, pictures from another lifetime, when his father was around, when things weren't so strained.

It’s odd. All the while gazing blankly around his little apartment, he can't stop thinking about Killua.

Killua's hand. Killua's thigh. Killua's ice-cream smile. Gon feels heat surge down his tense body.

The bottle crinkles from the pressure. He finishes with a wet gasp, recaps it and places it by the sink to reuse.

Killua’s cheeks when he's angry or embarrassed. Killua's hair. His body. _Him._

Gon's breathing becomes heavy. Eyes cloudy.

Killua's finger paints down his back, like the bead of sweat, it tickles down to the base of his spine. Gon closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the freezer door.

Killua is huffing hot breath at the soft of his neck. He's slightly taller than Gon, so he doesn't have to try when he bites at his earlobe. His soft hand wraps around Gon's clothed middle, the other pulls at his dark hair. Gon makes a sound in his throat as he leans back to bare his neck. Panting breaths come rapidly to the virgin.

Pillow lips and sharp teeth nip at his cheek, his jaw, the hand at his stomach trails down his abdomen. Gon is hard. He twitches against the fridge through his school uniform.

Killua bites his neck. Gon shudders fiercely, and his lover licks a line up his little ghost wound, as if to heal it.

“Killua…” he whispers, voice cracking.

Gon’s eyes shoot open suddenly---reminded that he's in his kitchen, alone. The air feels different when his eyes are open, feels cooler. He’s forgotten the lighting. Gon backs away from the appliance, flushed and breathing heavy. Stands there, unmoving, thinking…

He shouldn't... He knows it's naughty…

But he rushes to his bedroom anyway, swings closed his door even though nobody is home. Gon is embarrassingly hard. He holds fists at his sides, unwilling to touch himself. He tries to rid his boner away by sheer willpower. Instead he grows stiffer, leaking.

Gon groans something pained, like it’s inappropriate for him to feel this way. He falls onto his back on the mattress, arms spanning the length of it.

He's gone this long without it! He can hold out a little longer.

He inhales. A little longer.

Then exhales. Surge of pleasure strikes his spine.

A few, awful moments pass.

Gon writhes slightly, palm sneaking over his hipbone to settle near his arousal. Killua laughs purity in his ears. Licks his cherry bottom lip of sweets behind Gon's eyelids.

Gon shakes with arousal. The Killua that’s bold enough to lie beside him in his bed kisses his temple. Breathes into his ear, _“Let me watch.”_

He’s not strong enough to refuse. Gon shoves his pants along with his underwear down past his hips, making a soft noise when the waistband brushes over his dick.

He takes reluctant hold of it--- _seethes_ at the white-hot pressure of his own hand, the coil in his gut. His toes curl, he whines loudly.

“Killua…”  
  
He strokes rapidly, like a virgin, like a horny teenager who can't cum fast enough. “Killua…” The bed shakes softly when his arm moves too rough. He shuts his eyes, chasing after Killua's image. “ _Mmn…_ ”

He grips the blankets as he gets close. Leans over, arches up, hips bucking; twisting a fist over the tip of his length and biting back a gasp that's too wet, too airy for him to hear himself make. Gon feels all sorts of bad for doing this.

He creaks open teary eyes to look at his ceiling. The Killua in his mind is straddled above him innocently, blocking the light, watching him jerk off. His silver brows crease with lovely focus, and Gon flicks his wrist, in showmanship.

His pink mouth is hanging open, lips wet, eyes glazed, blushing filthy; and now his pale hand is reaching down to touch Gon---swollen and slick, twitching with imminent orgasm---

“No,” he gasps,

and the very second before his fingers make contact, he cums. Gon cries out. Like he's been hit, the pleasure _hurts._ His hand keeps going, body rocking without rhythm.

Muscled stomach convulses where his shirt is pushed up, spread thighs tense up. The fluid that shoots out nearly takes him by surprise. His hand rips away from the sheets to grab a random shirt hanging near the edge, catch his spilling cum before it stains his bedding.

Gon’s arched chest falls back to the mattress, back to Earth. His hips still thrusting weakly into his fist as he rides the last of his shudders. His breaths come thin and quick. He can't think, he can't see.

Killua’s gone. These daydreams always have the same ending.

The teenager swallows, and then in his post-high daze, slings his arm over his bedside, wishing his boyfriend would materialize next to him. He's never wanted anything so bad. He wets his dry lips, wishing they were puffy from kisses, and undresses all the way. Pants roll off, his shirt slips off his shoulders, and he tosses them into the assigned pile for dirtied clothes.

And then he sighs, once, in frustration.

Gon hesitates to say a word of his desire to his boyfriend. They've been friends longer than they've been dating… but Gon's become concerned with the way Killua's been distancing since they first kissed.

The day Gon had his first kiss was also in the same week he first touched himself. He's been in the perverse habit since. The teen has imagined Killua's reaction many times---the offhanded way he would say to him _‘I jerk off thinking about you,’_ with such casual flair, one would think he were commenting on the weather.

Gon wishes things were lighthearted and easy enough between them right now that he could come out and say something so daring. So intimate. He wouldn't regret it either.

Because Gon's never felt so content, so full-hearted. So brave. _Happy._

So… why has Killua been so sad?

Sitting up, the boy changes into blue house-shorts and a tank. He grabs his folder and textbooks out of his bag, walks to the kitchen to begin his agenda for the evening, which is simply: a brittle attempt at homework, and chores. The weak wooden chair scrapes the old tile as he pulls it out and sits.

Usually he's not good at noticing small things in people, but Killua isn’t people. Gon doesn't get it. He feels dumb, helpless, and he hates it. Feels like he can't help his best friend through his problems when he needs it so bad.

Gon frowns; over what Killua told him today… and what he _didn't_.

Running a hand through his hair, he remembers to shoot his aunt a message that he's home and safe, as is routine, and takes out his pencil to start his homework.

The teen’s eyes are trained on the book, deeply focused, but he's been reading the same first line over again for too long now. His mind is rain.

After a total seven minutes of thought and the same horrible sentence from his comprehension textbook is thoroughly ingrained, Gon decides that he'll confront what he's picked up on, the next time he sees Killua.

It's the only way to get through things! Otherwise they'll only worsen. He wants Killua to talk to him. To stay happy, keep Killua happy. Gon will fix it. Starting to actually do his homework, he tells himself everything will be fine!

His thoughts are scattered and scared away with the abrupt of an awful clanging _slam!_ next door. Gon perks at the startling noise.

 _Ah_ , he sighs softly. That’s just his new neighbor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rose-tint --
> 
> (from the phrase ‘rose-tinted glasses’); seeing and believing the world around one to be inordinately optimistic, brighter than it actually is. at times caused by the sensation of being in love
> 
>  
> 
> please leave kudos if youre enjoying!♡ i hope you read on, thank you!


	2. They call him crazy.

II 

_Liberosis --_

_a longing for liberty, an ache to let things go._

 

 

  
Kite has a specific routine.

He rarely to never strays from it, follows it as if it were a set of commandments. As natural as breathing, eating.  
  
In the morning, he has breakfast.  
  
First he puts his hair up, out of his face. He places a kettle over the stovetop with cold hands, tired eyes blinking sweet sleep away as the blue flame hisses. Sometimes the stove clicks too many times and he has to use his own cheap lighter to help it along, but this morning it lights on its own.

He opens the shades in his kitchen, lets the coming dawn’s light shine slivers onto cheap kitchen tile, warps the room a dim blue. Thin fingers peel open the oats container and Kite makes his oatmeal by memory. Pours his tea when the kettle shrieks, sits at the table with his tea and breakfast. Vapid.  
  
Swiping loose strands of silver out of his face, Kite scratches the skin above his knee where his boxers don't cover, rolls up the arms of the baggy long-sleeve he slept in. He sighs. Picking up a spoon, the single man begins his simplistic meal, a flavorless start to a day of mediocrity; and Kite has no complaints.

He's content.

After breakfast, he goes to work.  
  
Kite’s been a custodian since he was 18. He'd worked in the food and customer service industries for all of a few months as a minor, before coming to the final decision he was better off staying away from people altogether. Too soft-spoken, too gentle-natured for the hustle and chaos, in the spitting words of his supervisors. So for the next nine years, he worked in an office building, cleaning in the dark of vacant halls and empty floors, absolutely content.  
  
He’s good at his work; it shows in the calluses on his palms from years of gripping brooms and mops, the roughness of his hands, the smell of cleaning chemicals permanently amasked in his clothes, his hair. And he likes his job.  
  
Kite being the simple man that he is, never does much of anything with the money he's earned. Spends it, obviously, but nothing more than necessities. Occasionally little emergencies will arise. But with the number on his savings, one wouldn't presume to imagine Kite's been working as a humble janitor. Though he doesn't think much of it.

  
Kite doesn't really think much of anything.

And after work, Kite goes home.  
  
He lives his days in calm, suffocating quiet, absorbed in his own pastimes and solitude. On his days off, he'll read, visit libraries or play cards, chess and other games against his computer. Sometimes he socializes with people he'll never see again. The person behind him in line, the desk attendant, the suit-clad employee working around Kite’s cleaning.

He takes morbid comfort in making friends with people that will never know him.

Around dusk each evening he has dinner; something briefly made on account of his schedule, but occasionally creative and inspired of his co-workers’ lunches. Despite how little he does it, Kite loves cooking.

Sometimes after eating he'll sit by the window with a book and people-watch with a smoke, before heading to bed. Sometimes he lays on the couch with said book, curling strangely into the cushions like a tall feline, one leg strewn over the back and his other knee pulled up to his chest as he immerses himself.  
  
With wiggle room for errands and unscheduled events, he doesn't break routine, doesn't spend a dime of his small fortune on anything but food and few bills. Breakfast. Work. Rest. Dinner. Bed. He wants for nothing. Desires only minimums, peace.

He believes wholeheartedly, that he is content. Kite has everything he needs, on top of health, and relative youth---so he's content.

  
And he follows his routine, every day.

  
But when the day comes that his beloved and familiar offices are scheduled to close and auction for reuse, he feels a rare and sudden twinge of stress. It starts as a soreness in his neck, like a kink in the muscle that birthed one day and never left.

Maybe it sourced from the cold dismissal he received from his employer of nine years. A man he’d seen nearly every day, for nine years. Distant as he is as a man, Kite couldn't help the hurt that snuck onto his features when he was let go with nary a word for personal regard.

And when Kite is unemployed for a month, and the silence becomes too ringing in his ears, and his pastimes become hell and stress takes residence on his face in the form of harsh eyes and tired lines, he’s sure that structure--- _routine_ , is the only thing he needs to reattain for his life to feel comfortable again. Contentment in the way he's known it, habitually.  
  
A straight month of applying online for hours every day finally lands him a job, but for his least-desired position:  
  
School janitor.

 

 

* * *

 

  
He starts in two weeks, says the email reminder, filled with links and directions for orientation. The impersonal 'this is an automated message' signature reminds him he hasn't spoken to anyone in more than a week now.

Ah. Kite’s eyes burn and water from the glow of his computer screen.  
  
He yawns big and breathy, stretching tall and diagonal in his desk chair. Groans something satisfied when his back cracks just right.

It's past nine already; routine says he's to be in bed around now. But he leans back forward with a sigh, and continues his search online for apartment rentals. Being out of work has made him restless.

The kink, its stress has spread to his back, joints, head. Nothing doesn't ache these days. He wonders if he finally passed the threshold of _old._ As though in proof of this, his hand cramps from prolonged use of the mouse in this position. He switches hands and searches on.  
  
The quaint place he's lived in for several years is fine, but the long commute to his new job will inevitably burden him. With his annual lease due to end in the next few weeks, it’s perfect timing to move. He spends the next two hours searching, just like the past four, leg curled up onto his chair, biting his nails idly as he looks. Some pique aesthetic interest, some intimidate his provisional budget.

Eventually he's too tired to go on, but he's narrowed his choices, at least. Rubbing a hand over his face, Kite discovers that the issue in uprooting to a main, populated city---near a school moreover---is the availability. Or rather, the fantastic _lack_ of.  
  
Bristling at his options, Kite exhales, unwilling to settle on anything unlike his current apartment; which is quite perfect, when he considers it. He’s simply wanting to get this done as he would any other chore. He can always move again if he must. The perks of modest wealth.  
  
In the end, he decides on one of the more inexpensive options to call about in the morning. He's less than impressed with the look of the place, but it's got a full kitchen, and windows, and it's closest to work. It'll be fine.

* * *

 

 

“It'll be fine…” Kite lies aloud. Just loud enough to hear himself say it, frown, and then not believe it.

  
That's really what he'd thought--- _past-tense_ \---because now he's actually here. Those ‘clean’ pictures of the ‘new’ space on the rental site? _Lies._

It smells strongly of paint. Dark, even when he flicks the switches on, from too many bulbs missing. It's stuffy with dust and stagnant, warm air.

This apartment has gone too long without someone living in it. Despite cheap attempts to renew its interior with a lousy paintjob and one (1) vacuuming, little effort shows. It has the unsubtle proof of life and messes in the form of mystery stains on the ceiling, crayon scribbles on sections of the baseboards, rips in the old carpet, little cracks in the drywall. Kite thinks he sees a sinkhole in the grout in a corner of the kitchen. Prays he doesn't see a roach.

See; Kite is a grown man. Though he has the posture of a teenager, the misleading eyes of a seasoned criminal, he bears a lonely intelligence; unmeasured, only conveyed in the way his fingers dance when he's planning out his chess moves, or the way his nose scrunches when he's immersed in the flowery prose of advanced arithmetic.  

He's smart enough to know he's been taken advantage of. Kite is an _adult ass man_.

But. He's never really been good at lying. To himself, or anyone else. He's not particularly skilled in communicating his complaints either. He's used to _not_ taking a stand. It's fine, really. The less troubles the better.

Kite’s good at cleaning, but not talking, so much.

He made a total of two (reluctant) calls to his landlord; one unanswered, and one that was put on hold for an hour before the call ended from the other end. Kite assumed they were busy, and decided he'd call again later.

Later didn't come. He even slept in a motel last night just to avoid this place. Kite made it through his fourth day of work, but all his furniture is still in the van parked downstairs because of his wariness to stay. And all he wants now, is to sit down.

So after a day of cleaning after gross kids, (which unsurprisingly turned out to be far more grueling than he accounted for), he resolves that rather than wait a moment longer on the owners to reach him back, or worse yet, _assert himself_ \---he'd rather clean a gross apartment, too. _His_ gross apartment, now.

Kite, standing 195cm tall and motionless in his empty apartment, pulls on a cleaning glove with a _smack_. Pulls his hair back into a loose ponytail, and dons a face mask. He sighs tiredly.

His routine is shot to hell. But he's sure everything will revert to normal, eventually.

Even when he's too tired after cleaning the bathroom to move his bed upstairs, and falls asleep on a lumpy pile of blankets instead, face mask still hooked over an ear, Kite, in all his 26 years of educated naïvete is willing to believe that everything will inevitably be fine. He snores that night.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Damn it,” Kite mutters, sighing through his teeth.

He's currently kneeling front of his oven, curving back weird, half-inside as he attempts to clean caked-on crud and charred crumbs out of the appliance. He hasn't even changed out of his work uniform.

He had a bad day at work, see. Only his sixth, and already there's an issue.

He grunts when a sizable black crumb falls and hits his cheek, flies somewhere into his hair. Sighs loudly. He's frustrated. Rarely does he have such severely awful days.

His routine is finally returning, albeit reformed with little daily cleaning tasks, since this apartment was previously inhabited by farm animals and left in its state. But generally, he's getting back to the solace of a stable routine.

Breakfast. Work. Rest. Dinner. Bed. He'd love to only rest.

But there's too much anger in him at the moment to spend his time relaxing.

_“Oi, old man! Come over here, we made a mess!”_

Milk and cafeteria food is still caught and matted in parts of his hair. They'd tossed it at him as though aiming for the trash bin. Kite scrubs harsh, knuckles white.

_“The weirdo’s just standing there"_

_“You got shit in his hair”_

_“It's just like a girl’s!”_

His cheeks still burn from the insults. The oven char is past gone, but he goes on scrubbing at the evil spot.

_“Pathetic”_

_“He’s just staring"_

_“We broke him!"_

_“This guy is fucking crazy.”_

He throws the sponge away from him. Grimaces. From the humiliation of approaching his superiors, still dripping with the grime of cold food and milk. Dismissal disguised as placation, empty assurances. No move towards resolution.

Cover-ups, this is a good school, Kite, you should try to move past this, Kite. _‘Be the bigger man.’_

He gives up with the stupid oven to peel out, slam shut the door with all his might, and slides down to sit beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The worst part of it all?

The piteous, poignant sensation of shock, of the way he'd merely flinched, wide-eyed, when a group of unknown teenagers mistreated him. He did nothing. Surely, he'd been angry enough, indignation could have had him mouth them all off in return and have them all disciplined. But did he?

What's more unfortunate, he thinks as his shoulders begin to shake---he’s been secluded, and reasonable, and soft-natured for so long, he believes too much in the golden rule, bestows too much trust unto strangers to simply not go out of their way to be awful. A simple lesson in humanity, forgotten.

Naïvete may have once had a play in his meekness, but at this point he’s simply a coward. He berates himself.

Muted distress plays on his face in bent brows and a deep frown. Kite rises from the kitchen floor--legs for miles, hair cascading. Intimidating in all his height and impression, weak-willed in his heart.

Kite removes his uniform on his way to his room. Folds his coat, his pants, hangs them. His undershirt is pulled up over his visible ribs, dropped into the basket by the door. His socks are last to come off.

He hopes it doesn't happen again. Teenagers are fickle creatures, perhaps he was the unfortunate victim on a predator’s unintelligent whim?

Kite takes his time getting into the shower; waits for the water to steam before he sits, and while he waits, avoids the mirror. He combs long fingers through silver hair, a half-attempt at combing. Inches himself under the spray and takes time to break through the knots in his hair, washing away dried who-knows-what as the bathroom fogs. Hot water runs down his face, and Kite allows it, briefly taking too much comfort in the warmth it gives. A hand cupping his cheek. Fingers kissing his closed eyelids.

He sighs, deflated, and water sprays from his mouth.

It's a dim pulse of _want_ that births in his core. For oh, what? Little does he know. He simply, deeply, wants. Really, it’s easier not to want, feeding into vague pining for abstracts disrupts his calm…

...But sometimes, times like now, he wonders if that would be fine. If maybe he should chase after something, revel in the discomfort of change if only for its own sake.

Except. He never gets past the part about passion. So Kite again forgets that he's discontent, that he's lonely, that he has nothing. And he returns to his routine.

Seeping water escapes the corners of his lips as he frowns. Leaning his forehead against the cool tile in front of him, surmising his life, something either resignation or resolve plays in his dull eyes.

In all actuality, he's fine. Right? Of course.

Kite decides he'll stay under the water a few minutes longer, today.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really be at this point where any version of kite is acceptable to me. The frowny blushy loser kite, the one that hates interacting eith people, the cool one with intimacy issues. It all comes down to his relationships, dynamics! , and thats why i really love writing him. lub this man. probably has google tabs open about candlemaking and hydroponics systems. 7 cats. cant wait to see him grow.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a review if you're inclined! I love hearing Your thoughts, feelings and analyses of the story, the characters, they make my face red and punt me into my docs files to update even faster. ANYfing is appreciated♡ kill me with your words, babes
> 
> also, big thank you for reading. :)


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